madness (it takes and it takes and it takes)
by V. Sourweather
Summary: In which Draco is haunted by the ghosts of all the mistakes he made. [Written for QLFC - Round 6]


_Summary:__ In which Draco is haunted by the ghosts of all the mistakes he made._

_Rating:__ T_

_Warning:__ Mention of canonical character death; mention of torture. Also, this is very, _very_ dark._

_Disclaimer:__ I don't own anything, everything belongs to J.K. Rowling. I don't make any money out of this story._

_.:._

_Written for:_

_**[QLFC - Round 6]**_

_**Position:**__ Keeper_

_**Team:**__ Tutshill Tornados_

_**Prompt:**__ Write about a character descending into madness of any kind_

_Also, special thank you to my team for betaing!_

_Word count (without the A/N): 2,925 words_

* * *

_**madness (it takes and it takes and it takes): **_**Draco Malfoy**

Draco took a deep breath to calm himself. He stared at the ceiling and tried to block out the memories. Too much… It was just too damn much. He didn't think he could take it anymore. Everything was so vivid, and he could still see and hear and feel everything.

He wondered why his parents had accepted the Dark Lord's demand. They must have known that it wouldn't do their minds much good. And now that he saw his father's stubble and at the dark bags under his mother's eyes, he was sure they regretted it as much as he did.

"Draco?"

The voice was shrill, and he winced. Draco could recognize Pansy's voice anywhere, much to his chagrin, and he didn't think he could bear having a conversation with her now.

Instead of telling her to just go away (in more colourful words, of course), he said, "You shouldn't be here. It's—"

"You looked lost earlier. And I don't just mean today. Since the beginning of the year, you're… I don't know, tired?"

He sat up and stared at her where she lingered in the darkness by the door. It wasn't like her to be so observant, and he wondered if his exhaustion was that visible.

"What do you think?" He sighed. "That having the Dark Lord staying in your home, using it as the place he tortures people, is easy?"

"I never said that it was. But I thought you were ready for what was to come. You're Draco Malfoy after all."

"Yeah? Well, we Malfoys have lost everything. He doesn't trust my family anymore."

She hummed as if she already knew that. She probably did. Crabbe and Goyle talked a lot. Too much. Everything was too much these days, and he felt like he was losing his friends, his family… and his mind.

He closed his eyes and waved at her, hoping she would understand and just go away.

She did, though not before whispering a quiet goodnight.

He kept his eyes shut and drew another deep breath. How he wished he could forget everything. Everything he had done and heard. But he couldn't, and he knew he would be haunted by his actions for the rest of his life.

* * *

"You need to stop talking!" he almost shouted, his normally drawling voice thundering through the Slytherin Common Room. "Just—just stop talking, Crabbe!"

"I wasn't talking, Malfoy," his supposed friend retorted.

"You know what I mean," Draco seethed.

"Do I? I talk about a lot of different things, and they're not all about you."

Draco sighed and tightened his fists. He couldn't hit Crabbe, that would cause a scandal as everyone present in the Common Room was staring at the two of them.

"Stop talking about my family. About how they lost the Dark Lord's trust," he finally ordered, his voice as icy as he could make it sound.

Vincent Crabbe snorted and turned on his heel, walking away from him. Draco didn't know why he felt the need to call him back, but he did. Maybe he just wanted to tell him to never come crawling back to him—not that he would now, not anymore—or maybe he wanted to beg him to stay because he needed a friend, an ally at his side, now more than ever, but all he did was stare at the tall, fat young man in front of him.

"What?" Crabbe asked, his voice harsh and his fists balled at his sides.

Draco dismissed him with a nod. Maybe he should have asked him to come back to his side, but he had enough of his mind left to know that it wouldn't do him any good. If Crabbe wanted to come back, perhaps they'd be able to make an arrangement. But if he didn't want to, he wasn't going to _beg_.

"You know, I don't think you should care about what he says or how he behaves, Malfoy."

He recognized the cold, unwavering voice of Theodore Nott and didn't even bother to turn towards him. He'd never been friends with the guy, it wouldn't—

"I know what it's like to be judged for your parents' actions," Nott continued. "I didn't agree with my father's views until he… until he forced me to. And I was despised by everyone. I learned the hard way not to care about anything during this time."

Draco turned towards him and frowned.

"Why are you even talking to me, Nott?" he asked warily.

"Because there was a time when I was just like you. Thinking I was losing my mind. I hated my father for everything he was doing, and because he brought me with him when he was doing it."

* * *

"_Father, I don't want to be here."_

_Draco noticed the unreleased tension in the voice as it rang through the hallways. He thought he recognized it. Without any doubt, just another Slytherin… but one with enough guts to stand up to his father._

"_This will make you strong, son," the father in question answered immediately._

_Draco wouldn't climb down the stairs. Not now. He knew what would happen. Another torture session. And he preferred being locked in his room for those, trying to block out the noise. He couldn't believe the people locked away down there still had strength enough to scream that loud._

_As soon as he closed the door, he put his hands over his ears and closed his eyes, tightening his mouth into a thin line. But he heard anyway. Of course he heard. He did every single time one of those damned torture sessions happened._

_And through the haze of his mind, he thanked Merlin that his parents didn't behave the way that man down there did. They never forced him to go downstairs to the basement, and the Dark Lord never insisted. Perhaps he thought him weak. And the truth was… Draco was glad for it._

* * *

"You were the one they forced into—"

"Watching the torture sessions, yes," Nott cut him off sharply. "And you were the one who was called to torture Thorfinn Rowle the next time one of those happened."

Draco hummed and turned around, but he was stopped once more by Nott's voice.

"I might act like I approve of everything now, but I don't. Not really. So if you need someone to talk to… You know where to find me."

Draco acted like he didn't care about this offer, but really, he was grateful someone had finally done something more than tell him he looked horrible.

* * *

"I still have nightmares about what I did that day," he sighed, glancing up at his new friend.

Theodore was looking at him intently, listening to his every word. He was the first person to really understand, or at least it was what it felt like. Then again, it might be nothing more than a hallucination caused by the fact that he was going mad.

Draco lowered his head again and continued, his voice breaking even though he didn't want it to. "I still see him writhing on the floor when I—when I tortured him. And he isn't even the worst."

"Burbage," Theodore guessed, his voice as unwavering as it always was.

"They killed her right in front of me, and I can still see her fall on that damn table. I can't even look at the table anymore. I have to eat in my room when I'm home… And all that makes me think… I might be going crazy, Theo."

And as he finally told someone everything that he felt after keeping it to himself for _so long_, he started crying. Because it didn't help. Even if Theo technically _could_ understand, Draco could still see it and hear it again and again, a wave of crashing memories.

Sobs wracked his body, but even with his blurry vision he could still see the lone tear rolling down Theo's cheek, and he wondered if his friend was finally starting to let his guard down.

* * *

Draco still had nightmares. He'd been right; nothing had changed since his confession to Theodore. If anything, it was _worse_ than before. More vivid. And _they _were talking to him _all the time_. Even when he was awake.

The bags under his eyes were darker than ever, and when Theo had understood that talking hadn't helped Draco one bit, he'd just shrugged and told him that maybe he needed to tell everything to someone more qualified than him.

But he couldn't do that. That would be admitting his weakness, and the Malfoys were anything but _weak_.

When he got home for the Easter holidays though, his mother studied him carefully as she stood before him on the platform. Her eyebrows rose, and she asked, her tone dangerously cold, "What happened to you? Have the Carrows—?"

"It's nothing," he answered evasively. "I'm just tired, Mother. I'll get better when I'm home, I promise."

As he tried to walk around her, Narcissa Malfoy blocked his path with her long arm, and when Draco looked at her face more carefully, he saw the constant frown that she harbored and stopped trying to escape her.

"I shouldn't be telling you this, Draco," she whispered, looking anxiously around her because she knew there was a risk they would be spied on. "But I think—I think it's better if you tell your friends goodbye now. You… might not be able to go back to school after the holidays."

"What? Why?"

She didn't answer, but the way her eyes widened in fear gave him all the answer he needed. Voldemort… He was crazy for even thinking it, but he suddenly wanted to kill the Dark Lord for threatening his family.

Narcissa put a delicate hand on his shoulder and tightened her hold. And as soon as it had appeared, his anger vanished, leaving him exhausted.

"Go, Draco. Go say goodbye," she told him.

He nodded and turned around, only to realize that he didn't have any real friends to say goodbye to. He could wish a good holiday to Theo, but his father was there as well and he didn't even want to come close to that man.

He looked back at his mother and said as evenly as possible, "Let's go, Mother. I've already said all the goodbyes I needed."

Her brow furrowed, but she shrugged a little, and they both Apparated home.

* * *

He didn't dare look in the living room. He feared it would trigger something inside of him that he wasn't sure he could take. Not now, not when his mind was so fragile.

But he couldn't disobey a direct order from the Dark Lord, so when he heard the serpent-like voice say, "Draco. Come. Now," he obeyed, even if every inch of him screamed at him to just run upstairs and lock himself into his room.

The first thing he saw when he entered the room was not Voldemort, nor his father, who was standing at the back, or any Death Eater.

The first thing he saw was a body hanging from the ceiling, eyes wide open but unseeing. He immediately turned his head away, but he couldn't help but look back when he heard the words that would stay engraved in his memory forever.

"You could have saved me."

Her eyes were still unseeing, like those of a dead body, but her mouth was now open. He stared at her, because how exactly could he have saved her? He couldn't—he wanted to believe that because if he didn't…

"Coward."

"No. You don't get to call me a coward," he retorted immediately, staring at what he knew was an illusion but staring all the same. "I did everything I could—"

"Draco," his mother said gently. "Who are you talking to? Who are you even looking at?"

"I—"

"Your best just isn't good enough then," the dead teacher taunted him. "I was right there, and you could have done something."

"Stop talking," Draco ordered. "Please stop talking. Just—Just stop!"

His pleas were now so desperate that his mother put a comforting hand on his back, allowing herself something she knew the Lord would take as a weakness.

"You knew me," Burbage continued. "You knew me and you didn't do anything to save me. Why? I just want to know _why_."

"I don't know… I don't know."

"Draco?" This time, it was his father talking, and he wasn't being as gentle as his mother. His voice was like a warning or a threat, but there was something like worry hidden beneath it all. Draco was sure of it. He _had_ to be right.

"Who are you talking to, young man?" A smile stretched that lipless mouth. "Minds are such fragile things, one must be careful or they might just break."

Draco shuddered at the glee in the Dark Lord's eyes. He forced himself to look away, to break the hold they had on him, and turned towards his parents. "It's her! Don't you see her?"

"See who? You're worrying me!" His mother's voice wavered, but he couldn't help himself.

"Make her stop!" Draco screamed. "I can't— She's never talked to me before, and I need her to stop! She's— She's making me the guilty one, but I didn't do anything to her!"

"Stop lying," the former Muggle Studies teacher seethed through her rotten teeth (they had to be rotten; she'd been dead for so long… right?).

"I'm not lying! I didn't do anything to you!" he shouted, glaring at the nothingness over the table.

Gone. She was gone. Where had she gone? She had to come back, he hadn't finished explaining himself…

"You should take care of your son, Lucius." Draco shuddered. He could hear the laughter in the Dark Lord's voice. "Maybe have dear Bella take care of him. She does have a special touch for people in… _special_ conditions, doesn't she? She does so enjoy the Longbottoms."

"Yes, my Lord," his father replied obediently, and Draco could see him tremble.

Or maybe he was the one shivering from the strength it took to stop himself from screaming.

* * *

"Am I going crazy, Mother?" he asked her as she sat beside his bed.

He hadn't left his bedroom in days. All he needed to do, he did it there. He couldn't risk being seen again after his… crisis.

His mother was the only one he allowed in his room. The only one he hoped would understand. She wasn't like the others. She wasn't a Death Eater. She could—

But _he_ was. He was one. Even though he wished he never had taken the Dark Mark, the truth was… He had. And that had been the worst decision he'd made in his whole life.

His mother would never understand. He realized it only now and shrank away from her, hiding from the person he loved more than anything in the world.

"You're not going crazy, dear. You're just afraid…" She sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than him.

"I am going mad," he countered. "Why would I be hiding from _you_ if I wasn't?"

She studied him carefully and then stood up, her hands joined before her in an almost protective manner. She looked almost… scared of him, and that only made his heart clench. Not that she was wrong. You never knew what a crazy person could do.

"I'll see if I can bring someone capable in," she sighed. "Someone more capable of taking care of my son than me."

She sounded almost broken, and he wanted to reach out to her, but he controlled himself. No touching, he reminded himself. Not in his current state of mind.

"I'll help you deal with that, Draco. I promise," she told him before walking out of his bedroom, delicately shutting the door close behind her.

He stared at the ceiling, hiding among his pillows as much as he could. And when he finally had the courage to close his eyes (no nightmares, please no nightmares), he heard a ghost-like voice say, "You cannot hide from us. We're the ghosts of your conscience."

He immediately opened his eyes and almost let out a scream of terror. There she was again! Charity Burbage, hanging from his ceiling, smiling at him with her rotten teeth (he was right. Of course he was right).

Instead, he put his hands over his ears and started crying so pitifully that he _knew_ he wouldn't be capable of recovering from this.

"You can try and block us out all you want."

That was another voice, but one he knew as well. Rowle (but he wasn't dead… was he?)… Here he was, writhing on the floor under invisible Cruciatus Curses. And there were other people, people he knew had been killed in his basement. All of them were smiling at him with rotten teeth, their withered skin allowing him to see each one of their _bones_.

"We're in your head," Burbage continued.

He closed his eyes, trying to stop his tears and trying to _not_ see. But here they were, printed behind his eyelids.

All he could do was beg them, "Please go away. All of you. I don't want you to—"

"You asked your mother if you were going mad, Malfoy," Rowle intervened softly. "Tell me… Does seeing things only you can see, does hearing things only you can hear, make you crazy?"

There was only one possible answer for that, but Draco was already too far gone to reply with anything.


End file.
